


The Walk

by xmarisolx



Category: Home Burial - Robert Frost
Genre: F/M, Iambic Pentameter, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmarisolx/pseuds/xmarisolx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes with her on her walk</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendelah1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendelah1/gifts).



  
There have been times when men who cannot see  
Were filled with visions bold and bright as day  
There have been times when those who could not hear  
Felt cacophony clash against their ears  
Times came—with fame—upon the men, once lame,  
Who walked on reclaimed legs for miles and miles  
And when the man whose tongue had lost its taste  
Did burst with flavors: salty, bitter, sweet  
   
Less often does the mind that doesn’t know  
(Though will and might and desperate yearning crave it)  
Divine the thoughts and will and conscious thinking  
Of one that sits but just a breath away  
   
Her spoken words are heard and understood  
Hot tears are seen and whisked away with ease  
Her trembling hands and sighs don’t go unnoticed  
Nor shuffling feet ‘cross creaking floors at midnight  
   
And yet these are but tokens of the beast  
That rumble in the core of troubled hearts  
Faint shadows of the giants strong and mighty  
That taunt the wilting woman at her window  
Those words, and tears and restless feet by moonlight  
Do not reveal the bulging, searing swell  
Erupting from the depths of gurgling sorrow  
To scorch the muscle, tissue, skin and bone  
   
And forces her down the pathway of their home  
He follows her outside and down the stairs

“And who are you?” he calls out to the figure  
Approaching supercilious up his walk  
A figure, male and stately—far too handsome—  
Inflaming in him fear and anger, too  
   
“The postman, ugh,” she says in pure disgust  
With that, she marches further on her way  
And gathers round herself her favorite shawl  
The blanket of their now interréd child  
She turned to him, “You think he is my lover?”  
She shakes her head and walks on without stopping.  
“Don’t go,” he says, “I’ll follow you, I will.”  
   
“Do not come with me, you are not needed here,  
Please leave me in peace.  If you cared for me  
You’d let me go unbothered, undisturbed.  
Instead you keep persisting in this madness.  
Your callous heart could never comprehend  
And your pursuit just makes me more upset.”  
   
He runs behind her, catching up to her  
He touches her; she pulls away from him  
“Your touch feels just like knives and cuts much deeper  
I do not know you and, without a doubt,  
You don’t know me.  So changed I am, you can  
Not know the cruelty you give me with your touch.”  
   
“What have I done to merit such harsh talk?  
What crime did I, with malice, cause to you?  
The very callous way you say I show  
Have colored e’en the way you look at me.  
Each word I say you hear through filtered ears  
Each look you turn into an icy glare  
My laugh like thunder clatters on your ears  
My presence makes you wither and recoil.”  
“I will not have this conversation, will not speak.  
Do not pursue me more, I beg of you.”  
She marches steady onward unrelenting  
The pebbled path does stir beneath her feet  
She walks with purpose and determination  
He keeps behind her on her winding course  
Her rambling sojourn leads her to the brink  
Of wooded space where beast and vermin dwell  
Gnarly, knotted trees and spindly bush  
Conceal the scant remains of a littered path  
She pauses some but enters just the same  
The potted trail of underbrush and dirt and knotted roots  
With harried step she stumbles on ahead  
Driven, moving as if by mounting frenzy  
He follows her—determined, probing, curious—  
He’s never seen his wife like this before  
   
Along they go until they reach a clearing  
The disused path gave way to pebbled ground  
AND pebbled ground gave way to glistening water  
A creek that ran serenely through the woods  
   
“Do you come here?” he asks.  His brow is furrowed.  
   
At first she doesn’t answer, only sighs  
Inhales sharp breath, then slowly lets the air out  
Her shoulders droop, her countenance is weary.  
   
“I do,” she says, her first time answering  
She’s altered, something peaceful comes upon her  
He marvels in the change that he now sees  
   
“Why?” he asks.  He won’t expect an answer.  
   
To his surprise, she turns to him, “Because,  
It’s here we spent a many evening  
Or afternoon, sometimes when you were working  
We gather up our clothes and bunch them ‘round us  
Then by the creek we’d bring out bodies low  
We’d peer into the fractured, glossy mirrors  
And laugh at our reflections skewed and turned  
Then gaze beyond the surface of the water  
At little creatures making their way there  
   
“Little lizards, fish and croaking toad frogs  
Mossy plants and algae by the score  
Things we’d never seen or’d even heard of  
Stones and dirt and mud and sand and flecks  
Or something shiny.  He would think it gold.  
I knew better, but sucked into the story  
I’d play along and join his dreams of treasure.”  
   
He never knew this hidden place existed  
He seemed to understand the pull it held  
   
“You come here to remember him…when you go?”  
   
She nods, the lowers herself beside the hallowed water  
Her eyes close and he knows what she is thinking  
Imagining those cherished days again  
He draws close for the first time since her fleeing  
He kneels beside her, only an inch away  
He lowers his brute hand into the water  
And watches as it splashes through his fingers  
   
“I miss him very much,” she says.  ‘I miss him.  
The thought that he’s no more may take my life  
I must believe he lives on in this clearing  
And anywhere his memories are vivid.”  
   
“You have a gift I do not have,” he answers.  
“He lives for you amongst this living shrine.  
My ache is something different, something private  
My ache makes me not visit him at all.”  
   
The confession makes her rise up on her feet  
The distance re-established with a word.  
He rises up and looks at her, he’s pleading  
With his sad eyes that this place they can share  
   
“Do not mistake my words as me forgetting  
Indeed, his memory is with me still  
I see him in your eyes and in your person  
Your steely way, your loyalty and love  
I miss him in your laughter that has vanished  
I cannot bear to lose you and your spirit  
Not just your presence, but the spark you carry  
Bears light for not just you, but our son too  
   
He’s standing at this point and something in him  
Is welling up and spilling through his eyes  
She softens just a bit and for the first time  
Since their dear son was lowered in the ground  
She looks at him with something that’s _not_ anger  
And reached out a hand to his moist cheek  
   
They stand there silently—no word, no whisper—  
Communicates as well as beating hearts,  
That seem to sync again in matching time  
   
“There’s life in me,” she says.  “And I will live it.”


End file.
